


Acts Of Service

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [6]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: When Bodie reads an article in Cosmo Magazine it gives him a few ideas...(Inspired by The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman)PLEASE DO NOT RE-POST THIS STORY ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264832
Kudos: 11





	Acts Of Service

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Demented Pixie and I’m a Pros fan, but that hasn’t always been my name. If you knew me as In Love With Both and you’re a friend, then you’ll already know why I left the fandom some years back. But, hey, a girl can change her mind, and I have therefore decided to re-share my Professionals fanfiction on this amazing Archive – no changes, no improvements, no alterations. I’ll be posting them just as they were written. No comments, no trolls, and no betas. Just me and my stories. I’m sharing them so that they can take their place in the archive, but I’m also sharing them for the Pros generation, for those future generations yet to discover Bodie and Doyle, and for Sandra, who has never ceased waving pompoms for all Pros fanfiction writers.  
> The following story was written by me in 2012 for the Professionals Big Bang.

Acts of Service  
By ILWB

**Friday Night**

Patience had never been one of Bodie’s strong points. And so, today, in order to kill time while waiting for Doyle to arrive for their end of the week meeting with Cowley, he turned to one of his favourite pastimes - flirting with Betty. Perching one corduroy-clad buttock onto the corner of Betty’s desk he turned on the charm like a tap, totally overlooking her blindingly obvious determination not to be taken in by a single word he said.

“Come on, Betty,” he said, plaintively. “It’s Friday night. Everyone goes for a drink on a Friday.”

“Not this everyone,” came the terse answer.

“But it’s nearly Christmas,” he implored.

“And since when has that ever had anything to do with getting time off in CI5?”

“Well you must get some time off,” he tried again, picking up her copy of Cosmopolitan and casually flicking through the pages. He paused to look up at her through his long eyelashes, knowing in most cases that was all it took.

“Not enough,” she said, not even looking up from her typing. “My free time is like gold dust. You ought to try being secretary to a man like Mr Cowley.”

“No thanks,” said Bodie, with a grin. “Haven’t got the legs for it.”

“Me or you?” asked Betty, giving him a quick sideways glance, her fingers flying along the typewriter keys as if they had a life of their own.

“Oh, me, of course. Your legs are...”

The abrupt buzz of the intercom interrupted whatever compliment he had been about to pay her. Betty grabbed her spiral bound notepad, thrust a pencil behind her ear and leapt to her feet, hardly giving Bodie a backwards glance as she entered Cowley’s office and shut the door firmly behind her.

“Right,” muttered Bodie, trying not to be offended. “I’ll just wait here till I’m called for, shall I?”

Bored and already tired of waiting he turned another few pages of the magazine, finding a vague interest in the cat walk models as they illustrated the various make up and fashion tips. An amusing editorial caught his eye about keeping fresh while travelling on the Underground and he skipped through it to the end. Then he turned the page ready for the next literary gem and immediately froze. His jaw dropped. Hardly a veteran of ladies magazines he knew, nether-the-less, that he had never seen anything quite like this before. Totally rapt he read as fast as he could, his eyes tumbling over the words as his heart began to beat audibly faster. Aware of nearing voices and desperate to finish what he was reading before the door could be opened, he made a snap decision and ripped the two page article out as cleanly as he could, folded the pages into quarters and slipped them into his inside jacket pocket. Like a flash he returned the now defaced magazine to Betty’s filing tray and did his best to look as innocent as possible.

As Doyle arrived at one door and Betty returned through the other, Bodie gave them each a weak smile. Still somewhat stunned, he allowed Betty to usher him into Cowley’s office. He listened to Cowley’s speech on the time he wasted on meetings with ministers. He drank the offered Scotch. He made all the right noises in all the right places. But his mind was running over the words of the article again and again.

Without even trying, he had stumbled over the answer to a problem that had been plaguing him for months and now, at last, he knew what he needed to do.

** Saturday Afternoon **

Bodie wandered along Oxford Street, milling awkwardly with the throng of Christmas shoppers. He had no idea why he had picked a Saturday on one of the busiest days of the year to go shopping - he hadn’t really been concentrating and had only realised his mistake when he emerged from the tube station straight into the crowds of people. And now he was here he was even more clueless. He and Doyle didn’t do presents and he had nobody else to buy for – so what was he doing here? On some kind of auto pilot he found himself in Selfridges, neatly side stepping the long queue of families who were waiting to see Father Christmas.

Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing, while he simply didn’t have a clue. Slowly, Bodie continued his aimless meander around the shop, his mind still more on the Cosmo article than on doing his shopping. He was standing at a counter staring vaguely at a selection of after shave lotions when his R/T went off and he quickly made his way to a quiet stairwell to take the call in private.

The week from hell had begun.

An obscure bomb warning had been delivered to a quiet suburban Police Station during the change of shift that cold Saturday morning in December. The scruffy teenage schoolboy who had been given the message to deliver had been delighted with the pocket money so easily earned. Unfortunately his description of the man who had set him his task came through to CI5 too late for them to follow it up with any real chance of success. It was an odd description, certainly, but it didn’t fit anyone on the form book. The boy had said the man looked like a Corona Fizzical Bubble - short, fat and bald, with a strange long tongue that he kept sticking out at you as he spoke. He’d pulled up in a black car, given the lad a large envelope with instructions of where to take it, paid him, laughed maniacally then driven off.

Within hours of his delivery a bomb had exploded in Knightsbridge and, all of a sudden, it felt as if a war had started.

******

Bodie arrived in the rest room at Headquarters just under an hour after he’d received the call, to find Doyle and a number of other agents already there. They were all waiting for Cowley to give them their instructions, if there were any at this early stage. Bodie made his way across the room to his partner.

“I thought you were visiting your Mum this morning?” he asked.

“Well, I came back,” said Doyle, a wry grin on his face. “She’s used to it by now. I managed a cup of tea before I had to leave again. What were you up to when the call came?”

“Shopping,” said Bodie, vaguely.

“Shopping?” Doyle looked shocked. “You? Shopping?”

“Some of us do, you know,” said Bodie, somewhat offended. “You don’t get to look as good as me without buying clothes occasionally. Of course, I realise you wouldn’t necessarily realise that.” He pulled at the sleeve of Doyle’s red checked jacket. “How long exactly have you had this, er, garment?”

“Leave off,” said Doyle, pulling his sleeve away. “Good quality lasts.”

Bodie smiled at him, his mind running through all the things Doyle had done in that jacket, most of them with Bodie by his side - hundreds of hours sitting in a Capri, fist fights, gun fights, eating, sleeping. In its time it had been used as a blanket, a bandage, a warning signal and a rain shelter. And it had kept Doyle warm on a huge number of stakeouts. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that it was old and past its prime.

Doyle gave him a frown. “Bodie? You alright?”

Bodie’s smile didn’t falter one bit. “Yes, Doyle,” he replied. “Never better.”

And he meant it.

As Cowley gave his team sketchy details of what information he had received so far, Bodie struggled to maintain his concentration. At last the briefing was finally over and, with a sense of relief, Bodie found himself and his partner, along with the rest of CI5, scratching in the dark for clues.

“Why don’t we try Soho Sid?” asked Doyle, the tone of his voice implying that he didn’t think it was really worth it, but it was better than doing nothing.

“Think he’ll know anything?” asked Bodie, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“Nope,” admitted Doyle.

“Well let’s go see him then,” agreed Bodie, with a grin.

******

It was already dark by the time the two agents arrived in Soho. Parking their car illegally on double yellows in Peter Street they strolled casually into the salubrious looking minicab office which fronted onto a massage parlour. Seated behind the counter was an oily looking weasel of a man - in fact it’s true to say that everything about Soho Sid looked greasy. His suit was made of shiny grey material, his hair was slicked back with Brylcreem and, no matter the weather, he had a tendency to sweat profusely. As the two CI5 agents entered the shop he awkwardly shoved a black folder of documents under the desk and did his best to look as innocent as possible. A look he absolutely failed to achieve.

“Come on, Sid,” said Doyle. “No sense hiding things from us, is there now?”

“Not hiding anyfink, Mr Doyle,” sniffed Sid. “Just tidying up I was.” He leaned his elbows on the glass top of the counter and linked his fingers together, nervously. “What can I do for you gents? Need a taxi does we?”

“No,” said Doyle, perching on the edge of the desktop and leaning in an intimidating manner over Sid. “We don’t need a taxi.”

Sid’s eyes flickered across towards Bodie who was busy making his way around the room, lifting things up and putting them back down again as he checked every inch of the place.

“Need a …”

“And no, before you ask,” said Doyle. “We don’t need a massage.”

Sid looked nervously from Doyle to Bodie again just at the moment that Bodie had made his way to the beaded curtain that led to the back room. Sid’s involuntary and sharp intake of breath made him explode into a wracking cough.

Bodie looked suspiciously at him. “Nasty cough, that,” he commented, one hand fingering the beads of the curtain. “Anything back here I should know about?”

“No sir,” coughed Sid. “Not a fing.”

Doyle turned to look over his shoulder at his partner. “Think we should check it out?”

“Well…”

“No, sir!” Sid fidgeted almost painfully on his stool. “There’s nothing in there of interest to you gentlemen, honest there’s not.”

“Well,” said Doyle. “I suppose we might not have to check, eh, Bodie? If we were given information which took us elsewhere?”

“Oh absolutely,” said Bodie, dropping the beads and allowing the curtain to swing back into place. “If we had some information then we’d probably leave straight away.”

“What information?” asked Sid, sweating even more than usual as he grasped at the chance of a reprieve. “What can I tell you?”

“There’s a bomber in town,” said Doyle, bluntly.

“Oh that,” said Sid, in relief, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket with shaky fingers and wiping his forehead with it. “Saw it on the news. Big one up West, weren’t it?”

“Have you heard anything, Sid?” asked Doyle.

“How would I hear anything?” said Sid, incredulously. “I don’t know about bombs!”

“But if you did?”

“I’d tell you right away, Mr Doyle. Right away.”

Doyle stood up and put his hands on the counter top, looming over Sid. “I’m glad to hear that, Sid,” he said, aware that Bodie had moved to stand beside him. “Because if I found out you did know something that you hadn’t told me...”

“No need to worry, Mr Doyle. You’ll be the first person I’d tell, honest.”

Doyle straightened up and walked to the door with Bodie, turning back as his partner walked into the street. “Don’t leave me out, Sid,” he said, determined to have the last word.

“Honest?” tutted Bodie, happy to be outside and breathing fresh air again. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“No,” agreed Doyle. “But it’s always worth putting the word around.”

“Anything you say,” agreed Bodie, earning himself a sideways look from Doyle who looked as if he was expecting Bodie to have a go about what a waste of time the visit to Sid had been.

At this moment, regardless of the circumstances, Bodie was happy to agree with just about anything Doyle asked of him.

Smiling, he made his way back to the Capri, giving up the driving seat to Doyle who he noticed was still watching him with an inquisitive look in his eyes.

“Back to HQ?” asked Doyle, getting in and slamming his door shut.

“Anywhere you want,” said Bodie.

Doyle turned the key. “Anything I say? Anything I want? Anyone would think you always did what I said without question.”

“It’s just my naturally sunny disposition,” said Bodie, relaxing back into the seat and beaming at his partner.

Doyle raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing more as he began the journey back to base.  
It was going to be a long night.

******

** Sunday Afternoon **

By the end of the weekend, London had become the target of an indiscriminate bombing campaign that was apparently designed to ruin Christmas for everyone. West End Shops had to be evacuated, central Underground stations reluctantly closed and people were streaming out of the Capital in their thousands. Then, on top of that, the snow hit hard and it began to feel as if London and its people would never reach the end. It was only sheer luck that had prevented any casualties so far.  
In the midst of the chaos the security forces worked together to try to bring order to the City. The army were called in to secure key central areas. Cowley organised his people, sending some out on patrol and giving his top teams the opportunity to go home to rest for a few hours. While he had no real leads it was useless wasting their energies. He would rather they were fully charged up and ready to go when the bubble burst.

With the full support of the Cabinet who had been recalled from their weekend retreats, George Cowley formed an emergency committee and tried to focus their efforts in order to best use the resources available to him. He’d been here before and he was sure, at some point in the future, he’d be here again. So he set about using all the knowledge at his disposal to try to track down this new and rather unusual sounding adversary.

Despite everyone’s efforts to prevent it, in twenty four hours the bomber had successfully brought the city to its knees.

******

**Sunday Evening**

Bodie had just got up, his body a little confused by the enforced daytime sleep. It was Sunday evening and Doyle was due to pick him up in half an hour, so he made himself a sausage sandwich and a hot drink and stretched out on his sofa. The night shift would normally have loomed ahead like a dark tunnel but somehow, tonight, Bodie found himself looking forward to it. As Cowley’s top team Bodie knew that he and Doyle always worked best together so he was confident that whatever their Lord and Master had in store for them, he would be spending the whole of the night ahead side by side with his partner and this made him very happy indeed. He reached out to the coffee table and retrieved the magazine article again, unfolding it carefully and starting to read. Could this really work? Maybe it was only really meant for girls? He munched his sandwich thoughtfully.

Totally absorbed in his reading material it took two buzzes of the bell to break into his concentration. He leapt up and went to the door to admit his partner, stopping on the way to shove the article back into his inside jacket pocket.

Doyle, he noticed, was wearing the same clothes as he had been when he had dropped Bodie off that morning.

“Not been home?” Bodie asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Popped over to see me Mam,” said Doyle. “It seemed only right after letting her down yesterday.”

“Bloody hell, Ray, you need some rest.”

“I’ll be okay,” said Doyle. “I had a nap at hers after dinner.”

Unconvinced, Bodie pulled his shoulder holster on and donned his jacket. “Okay, Ace, let’s go.” As Doyle led the way down to the car Bodie shook his head affectionately. His partner really did need looking after sometimes.

**Monday Morning**

When Monday morning finally dawned Bodie and Doyle had been on a night shift that had lasted twelve hours straight through. But then so had the rest of CI5 - including their illustrious leader – and that meant that nobody would go off duty until he did and that was that.

As Monday progressed it proved to be a very difficult day. With a lack of regular or timely warnings nobody knew when the bomber was going to strike again, where his next target would be or how to find him. But at the same time they were all desperate to do something. So throughout the day agents were scattered around London checking into as many leads as they could. Somehow each and every one turned into a foul smelling red herring until, eventually, as the afternoon drew to a close, all the teams ended up back at Headquarters once more, looking both tired and clueless in equal measure.

Doyle nabbed a seat by the window and rested his head on his hand, gazing out at the rapidly darkening street below.

Bodie watched him from across the room. They were both in denial about their state of exhaustion but he knew there was no way they were going to be the ones to crack first. There would be clues, there had to be. These bombers were going to make a mistake soon – they always did. And then they would be getting somewhere at long last.

The kettle clicked and Bodie made two mugs of coffee, adding milk and sugar in larger than normal quantities in order to keep them both awake.

He walked across to the window and handed one of the mugs to his partner who took it with a blink and a nod.

It wasn’t unusual for Bodie to make Doyle a cuppa. If anything their years of mutual coffee and tea drinking had become somewhat of a ritual. But this time Bodie had a purpose other than just providing refreshment. The words of the Cosmo article had been drip feeding into his brain all weekend but he had been clueless on how to actually put its advice into action. Could making someone a cup of coffee really be enough?

He watched as Doyle sipped the hot liquid. He took in every detail as Doyle stoically ignored the boiling heat and sipped on regardless, throwing Bodie a thankful smile before continuing with the comforting sound of slurping that was so much his own personal trademark.

Bodie took a careful sip of his own drink, still not taking his eyes off Doyle.

“Ah, Bodie,” said Doyle, licking his lips and smiling at him. “You’re an angel.”

Bodie caught his breath, letting the words sink in.

This was it, he knew it.

He’d read the article six times since Friday, using every free and unsupervised opportunity he’d been able to grab. And now with every word consigned to memory, he knew he was going to try his very best to make its advice work.

And if it meant starting with a humble cup of coffee, then so be it.

******

It was late evening when Bodie steered the silver Capri through the dark and lonely streets of Southwark, glad that the snow was keeping the roads relatively free of traffic.

They had just had one of the most frustrating days of his career - with no leads and a mad bomber still on the loose they had both been made to feel totally useless and incompetent. On top of that they were more than just tired – apart from cat naps here and there they had both been over twenty four hours without proper sleep and that wasn’t a healthy state of affairs no matter who you were.  
Doyle blinked at his A-Z, trying blearily to focus on the road names. “Next left,” he instructed, hiding how secretly impressed he was as he watched Bodie skilfully manoeuvre the rear wheel drive car through the snow, sideways. The wheels pulled up just about near enough to the kerb to be legal and Bodie killed the lights.

“That’s the place?” asked Bodie, heaving on the handbrake and nodding towards the building.

“So I’m reliably informed,” said Doyle. “Switch it off, then.”

“If I turn it off we’ll have no heater,” said Bodie, reasonably. “We’ll freeze.”

“If you leave it on and our man is in there, he’ll hear the engine,” said Doyle, reluctant but logical.

Bodie rolled his eyes upwards and grudgingly switched off the ignition, snuggling his chin down into his polo neck jumper to keep the heat in. “Bet this one’s a red herring too.”

Doyle eyed him speculatively. “Yeah? How much?”

Bodie considered it for a moment. “Nah, I wouldn’t take your money, old son.”

Doyle sighed. “No, you’re probably right. It’s a foregone conclusion. If only Cowley could get us a proper angle to work on for once.”

“I don’t see how. He’s had nothing to go on since the initial bomb warning and that told us basically nothing.”

Doyle yawned and Bodie turned to check out his partner. He realised he probably didn’t look much better himself, but Doyle looked literally grey with exhaustion since his visit to his Mum’s. “Get some shut-eye, Ray,” he suggested.

“No chance.”

“Don’t be a prat all your life,” said Bodie, his voice muffled as he spoke through the double thickness of the roll neck of his jumper. “You sleep now, I’ll sleep later. If we don’t sleep, we don’t function. And that could be a tad too dangerous for comfort.”

Doyle still looked a little reluctant but eventually appeared to take in the sense of Bodie’s words.

“Wake me in three hours,” he said. “Then you can get your turn.” And then, as another yawn convinced him still further, he curled up on the seat and turned his head awkwardly into his own shoulder to try to get comfortable.

Bodie couldn’t help staring at his partner as he started to drop off. Tough and streetwise he may be but Doyle still had the ability to look incredibly cute and innocent when he was asleep.

Without warning one eye suddenly cranked open, making Bodie jump with surprise. “If you’re watching me,” mumbled Doyle, “then you’re not watching the house.”

Bodie blinked, hardly even aware he had been doing it and wondering how Doyle had known.

“Go to sleep, Ray,” he said, staring deliberately ahead at the house opposite.

After a while, when he was sure from the soft sounds of regular breathing that his partner was now properly asleep, he reached into the back of the car to pull out the travel rug. Tenderly, he draped it over the sleeping figure so that all he could see jutting out of the top was a mop of brown curls. An indulgent smile curled across his lips as, finally satisfied, Bodie poured himself some soup from the flask they’d filled at HQ and settled down to watch the house.

**Tuesday Morning**

A muffled sound of a car door closing awoke Doyle from a surprisingly restful sleep. He groaned and rubbed at his neck which felt as though it had been held in a vice for the night. The strong smell of fresh coffee wafted up his nose as he blinked himself awake.

“Is that...?”

“Here, it’s hot.”

Doyle sat up straight and pushed down the blanket, reaching out for the cup. “Where did you get this from?” he asked, watching as Bodie brushed snow off his jacket onto the floor of the car.

“There’s a rather good coffee shop in the High Street,” said Bodie, with a tired smile. “And luckily for us they open early. I just popped out for a minute. There’s nothing going on in the house, Control just radioed us to head back.”

“And I slept through everything?” said Doyle, wincing with guilt.

“Two radio calls, a snowstorm and me going for coffee – you snored through it all.”

“You should have woken me.” Doyle slurped at the hot coffee, noisily.

Bodie tried not to smile at the familiar sound. “I was okay,” he said, sipping delicately at his own drink. “You looked like you needed it. But if you really want to be nice to me you can drive back and I’ll catch forty winks.”

Doyle checked the clock, properly registering for the first time just how much time and sleep Bodie had allowed him. “Thanks, Bodie,” he said. “I mean it.”

“Any time, sunshine.” Bodie looked at the relaxed face of his partner, really meaning the words as he repeated them. “Any time at all.”

Tired he may have been, but Bodie was truly beginning to understand what that article in Betty’s magazine had been trying to tell him.

As they swapped seats and Bodie settled down to grab some sleep, he couldn’t help a contented smile creeping across his face.

So far, so good.

******

Working closely with all of his connections in the underworld, the Government and Sinn Fein, George Cowley methodically ruled out all potential political motives and terrorist groups. Gradually and inevitably he decided that left only one logical explanation – one obsessed and sick individual.  
Within an hour of coming to this conclusion, Cowley’s theory was proven for all to see. Outwardly calm and confident he stood in the Prime Minister’s office and listened as she took a somewhat bizarre phone call from the madman who was claiming to be behind the destruction and threats. A madman who called himself, rather unusually, ‘Hunapo Iraia Smith’. A madman who laughed at the devastation he had caused and gave no clue as to what it would take to make him stop.

Not often left speechless, Mrs Thatcher could do no more than listen to the psychotic tirade until Smith himself decided to put an end to the call.

Replacing the receiver with a noticeably managed sigh, she looked directly at Cowley – the man with all the answers.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to let her down.

******

Returning to Headquarters, Cowley immediately put his team to work. Knowledge meant power and he needed information on this man in order to be able to establish the best line of defence and attack.

He knew that Scotland Yard boasted an impressive team of researchers and so, after a moments thought, he sent for Benny - the one man guaranteed to get the most out of any group of young ladies.

“You want me to go to the Yard?” said Benny, a hopeful expression on his face.

“You’ve been to the Research Department before?” checked Cowley.

“Oh yes, sir!” exclaimed Benny, his eyes wide. “In fact I’ve been out with one or two of them in my time.”

“Your personal life is of no interest to me, young man.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Cowley paused. “Unless, that is, you feel it would be of benefit to this case?”

Benny considered for a moment, taking in the implication of Cowley’s comment. “You think I might be able to persuade the girls to help us more?” he said, checking he had guessed right.

“I need to know where this Hunapo Smith came from,” said Cowley. “And I want you to use your contacts to find out. Using any method necessary.”

Benny smiled, his mind leaping up to the seventh floor department which contained some of the most intelligent and pretty girls he had ever met in his life. “I’ll do my very best, sir.”

“You’d better,” said Cowley. “Now off with you!”

As Benny virtually skipped out of Cowley’s office he bowled into the two agents who had just spent an uncomfortable night in a freezing car.

“Hold on, Benny,” said Bodie, putting the flat of his hand against Benny’s chest. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“The Cow’s got me working with the Yard’s Research Department.”

Doyle immediately rolled his eyes and gave Benny a wry smile. “Oh, nice!”

“Why, what’s that?” asked Bodie, looking clueless.

“Crumpet Central,” explained Benny, irritatingly cheerful. “And I’ve got permission to use any method necessary.” He removed Bodie’s hand and quickly side stepped around them both. “Bye lads!”

“Bodie! Doyle” The voice of their leader echoed down the corridor as Benny skipped off, still laughing.

Resigned, they both stepped into the office to await their fate.

Cowley hardly looked up as he shuffled papers on his desk, searching for his notes. “Did you think I wouldn’t have plans for you too?” he asked.

“Would you like us to go and help Benny, sir?” asked Doyle, cheekily.

For a moment Cowley’s eyes narrowed at the disrespectful tone, but after a second or two he just pursed his lips and shook his head. “Now listen, you two. During the phone call to the Prime Minister Smith hinted at some association with market traders.”

As Cowley paused, Bodie glanced at Doyle who had the good sense to remain silent this time, before he got them into more trouble.

“I want you and the other teams out there,” continued Cowley. “Investigate all the various London markets; Covent Garden, Billingsgate, even Smithfields. Search them and put them under surveillance. Use as many agents as we can spare. Call in the uniform divisions to provide extra man power and report in when you’ve got everything set up.” He looked up at them as they both stood in the middle of his office. “Is there a problem?” he asked, curtly

Doyle shook his head, innocently.

Bodie coughed slightly and shifted his weight. “Erm, well we have been on duty since Sunday evening without a break, sir.”

“And?”

“And it’s Tuesday, sir.”

“I know what bloody day it is, man!” Cowley leaned his fists against his desk and roared at them. “Now, do as I say!”

******

Bodie and Doyle had been working their way around Covent Garden when the sleet started. After a quick discussion about whether they could watch the market just as easily from a nearby cafe as they could out in the open, they made a dash for shelter.

Bodie grabbed a window seat while Doyle got their tea and together they stared out at the bleak day.

Doyle’s R/T beeped and he pressed the switch.

“4-5.”

“Doyle, it’s Benny.”

“Have you got anything?”

“A few new phone numbers for me little black book,” said Benny, his voice warm and sunny.”Give me time and I’ll have more.”

“Have you got anything useful?” asked Doyle, raising his eyes to the sky as Bodie snorted.

“Oh yeah. Right. This guy’s name is of Maori origin. And it’s got some daft meaning.”

“What kind of daft meaning?”

“It means ‘Hidden Darkness God Wrestler’. Smith. He changed it by Deed Poll.”

“Any contact address?” asked Doyle, watching as Bodie scribbled notes on his pad.

“Not under his new name. But under his old name we’ve got previous information that links him to Stepney.”

“Your old stamping ground,” commented Bodie.

“You’d better give it all to Cowley,” said Doyle, into the R/T.

“Roger,” said Benny. “Oh, and Doyle?”

“Yes , Benny,” said Doyle, long suffering.

“Jennifer told me to say ‘Hello’.”

“Goodbye, Benny.”

Doyle put the R/T back in his pocket.

“Jennifer?” asked Bodie, his curiosity piqued.

“One of Benny’s cast offs he tried to set me up with once. She works at the Yard”

“Nice girl?”

“Police dog handler. Shaved more than I did.”

“Oh.” Bodie smirked at the image this conjured up in his head. “Nice.”

******

Bodie was driving again, in fact he was beginning to feel as if he’d been glued to the seat of the Capri for days now. Slowly and without drawing attention to their activities, he guided the vehicle along the streets of Stepney as Doyle directed him down one road after another. They passed rows of pre-war terraces, modern tower blocks, streets filled with market stalls, schools, shops and pubs until eventually they turned into a wide road with sand coloured blocks of flats on either side.

“Jamaica Street,” said Doyle, quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Police flats.”

“Oh.” Bodie looked around, realising what Doyle was trying to tell him. “What, all of them?”

“No, just some.” Doyle pointed. “See that little nursery school over there on the corner? It’s for the kids of Police officers’ families. My flat was three flights up.”

“It’s all right,” commented Bodie. “Not a bad place to work, to live.”

“Yeah.”

Doyle suddenly sounded very low and Bodie decided to pull up in a parking space outside a small parade of shops. He wasn’t about to allow Doyle to get maudlin about the past, but on the other hand it was obviously no coincidence that they had ended up in this particular street. “Bet you pulled the birds,” he said lightly, as he pulled on the hand brake and turned towards his partner. “They love a man in uniform.”

“What, here?” Doyle’s eyes dropped a little, the sadness in them fleeting but clear. “No, there was nobody special. Not here.”

Bodie scanned the neighbourhood that was spread before them. He didn’t know quite what he expected of the East End of London, but this was quite nice; there were trees on both side of the road and, although tower blocks were not the prettiest of housing, they were well maintained and the many balconies held tubs of shrubs and snow covered window boxes. There was even a huge Christmas Tree on the corner by the nursery school. It seemed a relatively quiet area and a good environment to set up home in. He found himself wondering how young PC Doyle had fitted in, how he’d won his promotion and whether he’d made any friends in the force. He certainly never talked about anyone from that time and the only information Bodie had experience of related to Preston and the other bent coppers Doyle had helped to put away.

“Were you happy here, Ray?” he asked, after a few moments pause.

Doyle shrugged. “I wanted to be a good cop.”

Bodie chose to ignore that his question had been avoided. “And weren’t you?”

“Oh I was, but you couldn’t say that about everybody.”

The implication of the statement was clear. “Corruption.”

“Yeah. It carried on from the 60s. You remember the East End Gangs; The Richardsons, The Krays. This was their manor, you know, in those days. Protection rackets were rife even years later - so many coppers turned a blind eye and the higher up they were the blinder they got. And it just wasn’t my scene. So at times it was a bit of a ...struggle.”

“And then?”

“And then Sid was killed.”

“Your old partner.”

Doyle nodded and swallowed, trying to keep the inevitable emotions under control.

“You did your best, mate,” said Bodie, softly.

“Yeah?” Doyle looked across at him. “And how do you know that?”

“Because I know you. When things get as crooked as they were back then... I mean, gangs, bribes, protection. There’s only one way out and that’s to clear the barrel of all the rotten apples and start all over again. You were part of that process. Look at Preston.”

“And things are perfect now, I suppose, thanks to my efforts?” asked Doyle, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Well, I doubt it,” admitted Bodie. “But who wants to live in a perfect world, eh?”

Doyle managed a small smile. He looked intently at Bodie, his eyes glittering with pent up emotion. Then he seemed to release all the tension with one outward sigh. “Let’s go and check out that address from Benny.”

Bodie smiled back at him. “Yes, let’s.” He released the hand brake and indicated to pull back out into the street. “Oh, Ray?”

“What?”

“Thanks for showing me where you used to live.”

Doyle sniffed and nodded, then turned to stare out of the window.

As Bodie drove on, he couldn’t help smiling broadly as he realised how happy he was that Doyle had let him into another small part of his life. He hoped it meant he was getting somewhere.

******

Doyle had been taking his turn at driving through the sleet filled evening when at last they received a welcome call from Headquarters. The recall of six CI5 agents from a training course in the Brecon Beacons meant that, at long last, some of those currently on duty could be allowed a brief rest. Doyle immediately headed West, away from the cold dockland area they had been cruising around and towards a relatively cosy Ladbroke Grove.

Pulling up outside Bodie’s flat Doyle looked across at his exhausted partner, nudging him out of his inevitable doze. “Home, sweet home.”

Bodie stretched, his return to immediate wakefulness proving that he hadn’t been too deeply asleep. “Right. Pick me up in the morning?”

“Yeah. “Doyle looked out towards the warmly lit and inviting doorway. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to going home. Thing is...” he pulled a face. “My heating’s broken.”

“What?” Bodie yawned. “When did that happen?”

“You tell me. The last time I was there, I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you say anything at HQ?”

“Oh come on, Bodie. It’s been chaos for days.” Doyle was looking more miserable by the second, as he realised he might as well stay in the car for all the comfort he was going to get at home.” I forgot all about it.”

Bodie sighed, raising his eyebrows in exasperation. “Right. Well, come on then.”

“Come on where?”

“Come and stay at mine.”

Doyle perked up right before his eyes. “Really? You’re sure?”

“More than that, I think I left my heating on when we got called in three days ago. It should be a veritable sauna in there by now.”

Doyle obviously didn’t need any further encouragement. He was out of the car, up the steps, into the apartment and throwing himself onto the sofa in sixty seconds flat.

“Thanks,” he said, as he rubbed his hands together in the almost tropical warmth. “This is wonderful.”

Bodie stood in the doorway watching him then, with a quiet smile, went to organise some food. He wasn’t sure how to tell his partner how much he completely agreed with him.

******

**Wednesday Morning**

Feeling refreshed and contented Doyle tucked into his scrambled eggs on toast, wondering if he shouldn’t stay at Bodie’s more often. He’d had a wonderful night’s sleep followed by a piping hot bath and now a cooked breakfast to top it all off.

“You,” he said, waving his fork at his host, “make wonderful scrambled eggs.”

“Better than Towser?” Bodie smiled.

“Oh, God, yeah.” Another forkful went in, but that didn’t prevent Doyle from talking. “Perfect.”

“We should let Headquarters know about your heating,” said Bodie, sensibly.

Doyle nodded. “I will. I’ll tell them later if I get a chance.”

“We don’t get much of one, do we?” said Bodie, somewhat dreamily, as he pushed his eggs around his plate.

“Much of one what?” asked Doyle, still chewing.

“A chance.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bodie blinked a couple of times, surprised with himself for taking the conversation down this particular road. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. I’m miles away.”

Doyle frowned at him, but before he could further investigate his partner’s rather odd mood, the R/T bleeped demanding their attendance in Cowley’s office and the chase was on again.

******

It hadn’t been long into Wednesday morning before Cowley had received a phone call from The Prime Minister’s office advising him that Hunapo Smith had made contact again, this time with the inevitable and much anticipated list of demands. It seemed the bomber was beginning to quite like his almost daily chats with Mrs Thatcher and didn’t seem to notice that the feeling wasn’t particularly mutual.

Finding it hard to take in the information he had been given, Cowley called Bodie and Doyle to his office from where they had been waiting.

They both stood in front of his desk, waiting for him to begin.

“We have heard from Hunapo Smith.” He picked up the file and read the papers inside again, staring at them incredulously. “I almost don’t know how to say this.”

“Has he made demands?” asked Doyle, curious.

“In a way, aye, he has.”

Doyle glanced across at Bodie who shrugged back at him.

“Er, sir?” continued Doyle.

Cowley looked up at him, almost surprised to see them still standing there. “Yes?”

“It might help if we knew what they were.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Cowley cleared his throat. “He wants one million pounds in used notes.” Bodie nodded, his expression showing his acceptance of the relatively reasonable sum. “And for the Royal Family to move en masse to New Zealand.” Doyle glanced across at Bodie again who was now raising his eyebrows. “But his main demand is for British Leyland to resume the production of the Morris Marina. With immediate effect, no less.”

Bodie’s mouth dropped open. “You have got to be joking.”

Doyle burst out laughing. “He’s cracked!”

Cowley leaned back in his chair and took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he looked at them. “I’m interested, gentlemen. Which of the three demands do you feel is the most unreasonable?”

Without delay, both men answered as one. “The Morris Marina, sir.”

Cowley smiled, despite the worries weighing heavily upon him. “I see.”

“I mean to say, sir,” said Doyle, in earnest. “We’ve still got one of them in the car pool.”

“We’ve been trying to get rid of it for years,” added Bodie. “It just refuses to die!”

“Handles like a blancmange,” muttered Doyle.

Cowley raised his hand, stopping their conversation from going off on a tangent. “And the money, the relocation of our Royal Family, they mean nothing to you?” he asked, now with his own suppressed laughter firmly under control.

Bodie stood to attention. “Of course they do, sir,” he said, finally realising how their views had come across. “It’s appalling.”

Doyle opened his eyes wide and nodded in agreement.

Cowley, abruptly, had had enough. “Exactly, gentlemen,” he said, leaning across the desk towards them. “So find him!”

******

Realising the hint about London markets had been designed to mislead them and waste their resources, CI5 refocused and decided to target their efforts on Earls Court, the area of London traditionally favoured by London’s Antipodean visitors. The New Zealand connection seemed to be key in some way and several teams poured into the area, seeking a starting point of some kind.  
Frustratingly, and completely in line with the way the rest of the investigation had been leading so far, clue after clue came to nought until eventually Bodie and Doyle found themselves in a pub near Olympia.

“So who are we looking for, again?” asked Bodie, eyeing the clientele doubtfully.

“Anyone acting suspiciously. And try not to look quite so much like a copper, eh?” muttered Doyle as he pushed his way to the bar. “Pint?”

“Cuba Libra,” said Bodie. “Please. And I am a copper, of sorts.”

“Well there’s no need to be so bleedin obvious about it,” said Doyle, turning to smile at the barmaid and order the drinks.

Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Of course, this was partly what they had intended - they had hoped to smoke out an informant or two or someone doing something they shouldn’t be. But what they hadn’t quite expected was to be quickly engaged in a brawl where they were outnumbered three to one before they’d even taken a sip of their drinks. But Bodie’s quiet words about coppers had been overheard and the people at the bar took exception to sharing the beer with the ‘filth’. Luckily the confined space of the small London corner pub gave Bodie and Doyle a crucial if minute advantage because it meant their opponent’s punches had to be swung economically, thus cutting down on the injuries received.

The partners separated a little, each taking on their fair share of the battle. Doyle noticed someone making rapidly for the door and shouted across to Bodie to get his attention – anyone leaving at that speed must have something to hide. He then turned to face two men who seemed to want an urgent conversation with him – using their fists.

Bodie swung at the man who had been so intent on a hasty exit and received a kick in the shins for his pains. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and then, clear above the chaotic bedlam, Bodie heard the smash of broken glass. With one punch he knocked out his man then spun around to see what was going on, but couldn’t get across the crowded pub to Doyle fast enough. His partner was near the bar, dancing to and fro as he tried to avoid being stabbed by a man brandishing the remains of a bottle of light ale. Small bursts of red appeared on the fabric of Doyle’s shirt and that was all it took to make Bodie leap, literally, into action, taking three men down in one. Almost in slow motion he watched as Doyle went down, wincing in sympathy as he saw Doyle’s head hit with a thud against the heavy oak bar as he sank to the floor.

As the sound of sirens wailed in the distance the pub miraculously cleared itself of all customers, innocent and guilty alike. Bodie rushed over, dropped to his knees and skidded on them to Doyle’s side.

Doyle was holding his arms around his middle, blinking in an unnaturally rapid manner. He looked groggy, as if he didn’t quite know where he was.

“Ray?” Bodie reached out to assess the damage.

“I’d stay down if I were you,” slurred Doyle. “He’s massive.” But before Bodie could enquire what on earth his partner was going on about, the curly head dropped forward and all consciousness was lost.

******

Early Thursday Morning

Doyle kicked the drinks machine again, starring with dismay at the beige, luke warm liquid as it slopped half into the paper cup and half in the drip tray. He shouldn’t be here, drinking rubbish like this. He should be at home with a nice, home made cuppa, in the warmth of his own flat, recuperating. Except, of course, he wouldn’t be warm. He’d be freezing cold because his heating was broken. And he wouldn’t have tea because he didn’t have any fresh milk.

He felt, to be quite frank, utterly miserable.

He sighed. Where was Bodie, anyway, and why had he left him at the hospital? If Bodie hadn’t told him categorically to wait to be collected then he would have got himself home in a taxi ages ago.  
Taking one sip and immediately throwing the offending item in the bin, he was relieved beyond measure to look up at last into the happy smiling face of his partner.

“Ready to go?” said Bodie, rubbing his hands together in something that looked very much like glee.

“Where have you been?”asked Doyle, petulantly.

“I told you I had some things to do,” said Bodie. “And I knew it would take you hours to get through Casualty.” He looked his partner up and down. “All sorted?”

Doyle shrugged his shoulders, trying to give the impression of someone who really wasn’t in any pain at all. “Slight concussion. Six stitches, left rib. Not too deep.”

“Ah.” Bodie dropped the smile, knowing precisely how much that would hurt. “Well, let’s get you home then, shall we?”

“Yeah,” said Doyle, his tired and shaky smile a pale imitation of Bodie’s. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

“After you, m’Lord,” said Bodie, opening the door to the car park with an exaggerated flourish.

Doyle didn’t really remember a lot of what happened next. Bundled into the still warm car he was transported home and tucked into his own bed before he had time to say ‘Stop fussing, Bodie’.

And Bodie was the happiest he had been for a very long time.

******

Doyle’s first coherent thought, when he woke up mid morning on Thursday to find himself warm and cosy inside a nest of quilts and blankets, was that Bodie must think he was in hibernation from the amount of covers he had piled on top of him.

And indeed the rough tough CI5 agent did give an excellent impression of a dormouse as he emerged from the cocoon into the daylight. Expecting the cold to hit him as soon as he showed his face, he was rather taken aback to instead be met with a comfortable warmth. It was still sleeting outside; he could hear it splattering against the window. His bedroom should, on present form, feel like an ice box by now.

Suspicions already beginning to form in his mind he pushed back the covers and, casually wondering for a moment about who had taken his clothes off for him, carefully ventured out of bed and into the lounge. Keeping an arm close against the row of stitches in his side, he padded across to the kitchen. Fresh bread, eggs and fruit that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt had not been there four days previously, now occupied pride of place on the worktop. He opened the fridge. Fresh milk – two pints. A carton of orange juice. Salted butter. A packet of bacon – Bodie’s favourite brand, thick cut.

The kitchen fairies had apparently paid him a visit. Doyle smiled as a picture flashed into his head of Bodie tiptoeing around his flat wearing pink fairy wings with a basket of groceries in his hand.  
He closed the fridge door and went to the airing cupboard in the hall to check on the boiler. The pilot light was lit and working perfectly and yes, as suspected, his favourite jeans and jumper had been draped carefully over the hot water tank.

“Oh, Bodie,” he said, with a smile, as he reached out for his clothes. Carefully, he pulled them on, luxuriating in the feeling of warm as toast cotton and wool against his skin.

Having a partner was indeed a wonderful thing. He just hoped Bodie realised how much his efforts were truly appreciated.

******

Less than an hour later, Doyle arrived at Headquarters and immediately went on a search for Bodie. He made his way down to the changing rooms first, wanting to change his shoes after they had got soaked in the slushy grey snow that was still coating the car park. Bodie had to be around here somewhere so it was a good place to start looking.

Doyle pulled his shoes off and opened the door to his locker, pausing when he saw a cellophane wrapped item on the shelf. Instantly suspicious, he put his shoes down and reached for the package.  
It was the shirt he had been wearing yesterday, the one that been torn and covered in blood. Only it wasn’t ripped and bloodstained anymore. He turned it over in his hands, noticing the small sticky label that showed it had come from Bodie’s own favourite laundry in Chinatown. Doyle frowned. How on earth had his partner managed to get his shirt laundered since he left him in the small hours of the morning? Carefully, he peeled back the label and opened the cellophane, pulling out the light blue shirt. A circle of cardboard was wrapped around the collar, held in place by tiny pins. Doyle doubted that this particular shirt had ever seen cardboard and pins, even when it was new.  
He held the shirt up to the light. The blood stained rip that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt had been there yesterday had now magically disappeared.

At that moment Bodie entered the room, looking decidedly sheepish when he saw Doyle standing by the locker with the repaired shirt in his hand.

“Bodie,” said Doyle, holding up the item in question. “Did you do this?”

“Ah,” said Bodie, flustered. “Well not exactly. The lady who does my laundry is amazing. I didn’t think you’d get a chance and, well, I couldn’t have you putting it back on again with all that blood on it. It would ruin my style, being seen out with you dressed like that.”

“It’s incredible,” said Doyle, his happy expression faltering a little as he took in the implications of all Bodie had been doing for him. “And my boiler, you fixed that too, didn’t you? Did I miss something? Is it my birthday?”

“I had an hour or two to kill and didn’t fancy hanging around that drafty hospital,” said Bodie, blushing to his toes. Gratitude and questions were two things he had been trying his best to avoid and the magazine article hadn’t explained how he was supposed to deal with them. “Anyway, get a move on, Cowley wants us. And hang that shirt up before you ruin it.”

Doyle reverently hung the shirt on a hanger and shut the door to his locker. With a shake of his head as Bodie departed rapidly through the door, he pulled on his red kicker boots and joined his partner back into the fray.

******

There was no doubt about it – Doyle felt happy. It may have been a miserably cold day and they may have been in the middle of investigating a bombing campaign, but he still felt happy. He was driving through the London streets, his partner by his side and he felt in control and confident as well as warm and well fed. Even the stitches in his side weren’t aching too much.

Bodie glanced across at him. “Okay?” he asked.

Doyle smiled back. “Yeah.”

Bodie looked away and out of the window, almost blushing. It made Doyle smile even more as he pushed his foot on the accelerator.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve having Bodie look out for him, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Doyle was driving them through Hammersmith when the call came.

“Calling all units. We have received a bomb alert from the suspect, directing us to 6.2’s vehicle outside his apartment. 6.2 non responsive. Please assist. Out.”

“We’re five minutes away,” confirmed Bodie as he grabbed the car R/T to radio in their position. “Put your foot down.”

Keeping his panic in check, Doyle did so.”Hang on, Murph,” he muttered, as he floored the accelerator.

Those five minutes felt like an hour as they finally screeched their vehicle to a halt in Murphy’s road.  
Leaving the car doors hanging open they both leaped out, spotting Murphy’s car immediately.

“Could be a hoax,” said Doyle, pausing in mid step.

“Maybe Murph disarmed it?” suggested Bodie, stopping too.

“What if he didn’t?”

“What if he’s trapped in there?”

Doyle looked at Bodie, his chest heaving with adrenalin. “Well, come on, then.”

Together they began to approach the car.

And the world exploded.

As fragments of molten metal fell from the sky, Doyle blinked himself awake. He was being pinned down by something really heavy...

“Bodie, get off me!”

“Are you okay?” Bodie disentangled himself from his partner and sat up. The urge to protect his partner from the blast had been so strong that he hadn’t even noticed himself tackle Doyle to the ground and throw himself across him.

“You?” asked Doyle, dusting himself down, wincing as his stitches pulled.

“I asked first.”

They both paused and then spoke at the same time. “Murph.”

They helped each other to their feet and stumbled across to the burning wreckage, realising as they approached that there was no way anyone in the vehicle could have survived the fireball.

“He can’t have been in there,” said Bodie, shocked and looking across at Doyle for confirmation.

“Spread out,” said Doyle, his voice shaky. “Check the area.” He pulled out his R/T and called in to Headquarters as he started to search nearby gardens.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

“Oh, Christ! Murph! Doyle!” Bodie’s shout echoed into the cold air and brought Doyle running.

They both fell to Murphy’s side, squeezing into the small front garden where he lay and where he had thankfully been protected from the blast by a red brick garden wall.

As Bodie started to check him over Murphy stirred, mumbling and reaching out to them in a panic.

“Careful,” he said, his voice slurred. “There’s a bomb!”

“You don’t say,” said Doyle, sitting back on his heels in relief.

Bodie helped Murphy to sit up and Doyle came in close to inspect a nasty wound just above the younger agent’s eyebrow.

“Looks like a set up,” muttered Bodie, as cars and sirens descended on them from all directions.

“With us the butt of the joke,” agreed Doyle.

“My car...” said Murphy, his vision clearing enough for him to finally see the remains of his beloved Escort.

“Looks like you’re on your bike from now on, mate,” said Bodie, standing up to make room for the paramedics.

“Sorry, Murph,” said Doyle, also standing. “But we’d rather lose a car than you.”

Murphy looked up at them both, the resulting smile worth a million cars.

******

Cowley called his team together for yet another briefing, the stress showing on his tired and deeply lined face as he came into the room.

He nodded to Murphy, who was sitting on the sofa with Bodie and Doyle standing either side of him. He could so easily have been their first victim of this madness. It had been in Smith’s hands to save or condemn him and, for some reason, he had thankfully decided on the former.

Cowley threw a heap of files on the table top and stood in front of the crowd of agents, waiting for quiet.

“That was the first explosion to directly target a member of CI5,” he said, getting their attention immediately. “I am concerned that he will now turn to political targets or public figures. Pay attention now everyone, our man Mr Smith has sent us a message.”

He nodded to Benny who pressed the ‘Play’ button on the tape recorder.

A wild scream made them all wince and cover their ears.”They call me Hunapo Iraia Smith,” cried an exuberant voice.” I am the God Wrestler! I will defeat you all and you will never find me! Bring me money, send the chosen ones to my homeland and save my beloved automobile, or I will blow you all to the next life!” The laugh that followed sounded like the worst pantomime villain ever to grace a provincial theatre’s stage and Benny quickly leaned across to press ‘Stop’.

Cowley looked around the room, his expression grim. “I want this man. You,” he pointed at each person stood before him, “need to find this man. We are running out of time.”

Anson coughed and all heads turned his way. “Have we heard from British Leyland yet, sir?” he asked, his face deadpan.

Cowley lost his temper. “Get out there – now!” he bellowed, clearing the room in seconds.

******

Leaving Murphy to the tender mercies of Betty and Susan, Bodie took pity on Cowley and followed him along the corridor and back to his office. Without a word Bodie walked across to the cabinet, poured a measure of scotch into a crystal glass and solemnly handed it over.

Cowley raised an eyebrow, then accepted the symbol for what it was. “Aye, cheers.” He knocked the drink back, savouring the hit.

“We’ll get him, sir,” said Bodie.

“We better had, sonny. We better had.”

A quick knock on the door was followed by Doyle rushing in, not waiting for permission to enter.

“He’s on the line, sir,” he said, breathlessly.

Cowley nodded. “Is the trace on?”

“Yes, sir,” confirmed Doyle. “Just keep him talking.”

Cowley pressed the button on the phone console, putting the eccentric bomber on loud speaker.

“George Cowley,” he said, calmly.

“Ah!” The same exuberant booming voice rang out. “At last an organ grinder instead of monkeys!”

“Mr Smith?”

Hunapo didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “When do I get my money?”

“I have the money standing by,” said Cowley. “You only have to give me a time and place.”

Hunapo laughed hysterically. “Forgive me if I fail to believe you.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“If you were a man of your word, you would have the Royal family on a plane by now.”

Bodie looked up at Cowley, wondering how he was going to play this.

“I’m sure a man of your obvious intelligence must already know that it has always been UK convention for the Sovereign to travel separately from any successors,” said Cowley, calmly. “It is therefore necessary to arrange at least six aeroplanes and that is taking some time. I’m sure you can appreciate that we must ensure the safety of the heir to the throne at all times.”

There was a moment of silence as Hunapo took that in. “I see,” he said. “Yes, most sensible.”

“Mr Smith,” said Cowley, keen to keep him talking. “Your first two names are most unusual. Will you explain them to me?”

“Ah!” Hunapo’s voice boomed down the line. “Of course you wish to know of the legend that is Hunapo Iraia Smith! I am Hidden Darkness, I am the God Wrestler!”

“But ‘Smith’ is not a Maori name?”

“But it is the name of my Fathers,” said Hunapo, his voice full of sincerity. “And if I failed to keep it, it might die out.”

“The name of Smith,” said Cowley, carefully, “might die out?”

“But of course!” Again Hunapo laughed heartily. He was starting to let his guard down – his accent had slipped from a theatrical boom to that of a more natural East London cockney.

Cowley looked across to Bodie, who shrugged at him, and to Doyle who just shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable in the chair. They were both equally clueless about this strange adversary.

“Mr Smith,” Cowley tried again. “Your bombs...”

“Are magnificent! I learned well from my Fathers, but I do not need their ancient Irish politics to provide reasons for the beauty I create.”

“Your Father was affiliated with the IRA?” Cowley nodded to Bodie who immediately left the room to pass on the information to the researchers.

“He was misguided.” Hunapo’s voice became serious. “There is nothing more important than the return of my beloved Morris Marina. The thought of that fateful day when they halted production,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “makes me want to...BLOW THINGS UP!!!”

“Mr Smith,” Cowley tried to calm him, without success.

“You have twenty four hours!”

And the line went dead.

Bodie appeared back at the door. “We’ve got a trace, sir.”

Cowley banged his fist on his desk, making the little silver balls bounce against each other in their cradle. “Yes!”

The net was starting to close.

**Early Friday Morning**

The A Squad were all at Headquarters, preparing for the following operation with military precision. Cowley was determined nothing would go wrong. They would bring this madman to justice with careful planning and a unified force. Armed Police had been sent to guard the address the telephone call had been traced to and CI5 were about to swoop.

Doyle was sat curled in an armchair in the corner of the Squad Room with his face buried in the research notes that Benny had brought back from the Yard. In the crowd of people milling about the room, Bodie hadn’t even noticed that his partner was there when he walked in. Doyle was concentrating on his reading and didn’t look up, but suddenly he found himself eavesdropping with keen intensity. He froze in his seat, keeping his back to the room.

“I’m telling you Doyle still owes me twenty quid.”

“From when?” Bodie’s voice.

“From last month.” Who was that, thought Doyle? McCabe? “He’s a right skinflint, your partner.”

“He’s probably just forgotten.” Doyle smiled as Bodie instantly leapt to his defence.

“No chance, Bodie. I’ve reminded him three times. Three times! I’m never going to see that money, am I?”

“Look, just take this. But don’t say anything to him, okay?”

“What?”

“You want your twenty, don’t you? So here it is. As long as you don’t mention it to him.”

“He can’t go through life with you sorting his problems out for him.”

“Do you want the money or not?”

“Oh, I want it!” McCabe made a snorting sound. “I just don’t get why you’re paying his debts.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t do the same for Lucas?”

“Nope.”

It was Bodie’s turn to snort. “Yeah, well maybe you’ve got a few things to learn about being partners, hey Mac.”

Doyle blushed, hardly daring to move. What was going on? It’s not that Bodie had ever been actively nasty to Doyle, quite the contrary. But he was just being so *nice* lately. Overly so. Fixed boilers, repaired shirts, mugs of coffee, extra sleeps... and now Bodie was even giving away his own hard earned cash to save Doyle’s reputation. What exactly was Bodie up to?

He didn’t have very long to ponder.

Benny burst into the room. “Cowley says it’s all hands on deck. Uniform have stumbled over the nutter before we were ready to go.”

“Bloody hell,” said McCabe, in sudden shock.

“Yes,” said Anson, from across the room. “I think that probably sums it up very well indeed.”

As Bodie followed the others Doyle waited until the room was completely empty before getting up to go with them. He was going to have a word with his partner – soon.

******

Converging on the terraced house in Stepney, the CI5 team took control of the situation quickly. Marksmen were deployed to nearby higher buildings, the streets were cleared and the public were held back behind a cordon. Bodie and Doyle quickly joined Cowley where he was sheltering from view behind a transit van, a loud hailer in his hand. Uniformed police, looking slightly out of their depth, surrounded the area.

“We’re sure he’s in there, sir?” asked Bodie.

“Aye,” confirmed the CI5 boss, his face grim. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the place is full of bomb making equipment too.”

“Any hostages?” asked Doyle.

“There’s an infants school next door.” Cowley nodded towards it. “We were too late to evacuate it. He has six children and their teacher in the house with him.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged nervous glances. They were all going to have to handle this one very carefully indeed.

“Can you get him out, sir?” asked Doyle. “To talk to you?”

“I don’t know. What have you in mind?”

“We need to get him away from those kids.”

There was a pause as the three men worked through the most efficient plan in their minds. This particular scenario was something they had practised in training and they knew what they should be doing. Of course in real life it all felt very different. In the end, Cowley nodded. They had no real choice.

“We’ll try it,” he agreed. “Bodie, take a small team around the back. Doyle, get up on the roof with the police marksman.”

With a tap of the hand on Doyle’s shoulder, Bodie ran off to get behind the building without being seen while Doyle located a rickety metal fire ladder that led to the roof of the shop they were sheltering beside.

Cowley waited for them both to be in position, then raised the loud hailer.

“Hunapo Smith. Can you hear me?”

It took several attempts but finally Cowley’s persistence paid off and Hunapo Smith opened the front door of the house a little. Cowley took a deep breath and began negotiations.

“Mr Smith,” called Cowley. “It is not too late to give yourself up.”

“If that’s want you want, Mr Organ Grinder,” bellowed Smith, “then you’re barking up the wrong monkey.”

“Then let us help you to get out of there.”

“You think I can’t get out if I want to?” At that Hunapo stepped more out of the doorway, a gun being waved in one hand and, regrettably, a young boy being held close in his other.

From his vantage point on the roof Doyle could see Hunapo clearly, watching the strange behaviour of the man as he kept sticking his tongue out as he spoke. Twice he dropped into a stance like the Hakka at the start of a rugby game. He had painted elaborate Maori designs all over his face, although he didn’t look Maori at all.

He was obviously more than a few Green Shield Stamps short of a pop up toaster.

Doyle listened hard as Cowley tried his best to talk the man around, realising with a sinking heart that Hunapo was refusing to capitulate.

And then tragedy struck.

Just when it appeared that Hunapo was going to retreat back to the house there was a scream from inside. Hunapo jumped in fear, screeched and pointed his gun at his hostage. The little boy started to laugh, oblivious to the danger.

Doyle grabbed the rifle from the police marksman he was sharing the roof with and aimed it at Hunapo.

Panic struck one of the watching Policemen who, remembering the instructions he had received at his briefing that they needed to make sure no civilians were hurt, took the initiative and hurled a canister of CS gas straight at Hunapo.

And, dreadfully, the sound of two simultaneous gun shots rang out.

In the chaotic gas filled aftermath, nobody could see exactly what had taken place. Hunapo, bleeding from a wound in his thigh, dropped to the floor screaming. The A Squad moved in, Bodie coming through the house from behind, keeping Hunapo down on the ground with repeated shouts and orders. More team members moved into the house to rescue the group of now hysterical hostages. And Doyle leapt back down to the ground and ran to the small boy who now lay deadly still in a pool of blood, reaching him before anyone else could.

Doyle pulled his own jacket off and wrapped the child in it, clutching him close as he checked him over for injuries. Was he dead? He couldn’t be dead. Doyle couldn’t have killed a little boy... His hands started to shake, his eyes filled with tears and suddenly he couldn’t see properly.

The crew from one of the waiting ambulances pushed their way through the madness and tried to take the child from Doyle but he wouldn’t let him go. Cowley was shouting something about letting them do their job, telling him to give the child up. Doyle ignored him. Instead, Doyle stood up, lifted the boy carefully and carried him to the ambulance, climbing in the back with the child still cradled in his arms as the paramedics worked around him.

With more than enough on his plate, Bodie could do no more than watch in dismay as the ambulance left the scene, his partner still on board.

Was the child dead or not? And who had shot him?

Bodie worked fast, directing Anson to accompany him in the other ambulance that was about to take Smith in for treatment. He knew it was essential that he had to get to the hospital to support Doyle.

His partner needed him.

******

Still in shock, Doyle watched as the small body of the child was loaded onto a trolley and taken through to Accident and Emergency. He stood in front of the swing doors, staring after the doctors and nurses as they disappeared from sight.

He wasn’t sure how long he had stood there when suddenly, without warning, he was being punched by small but determined fists, hitting out at him again and again.

“You shot my son!” cried the distraught woman as she struck him repeatedly.

He looked at her, his expression blank. “What?” he managed to ask.

“Look at you!” she cried. “Covered in my boy’s blood! It’s all your fault!”

One of her punches was a direct hit against the stitches in his side but he hardly flinched. He didn’t do a thing to stop her attack. Eventually a security guard arrived and pulled her away but Doyle still stood there, motionless.

Did someone just ask if he was okay? Was someone trying to get him to sit down?

He didn’t want to be okay and he didn’t want to sit down. They needed to leave him alone. He had to get out.

Blind to everything and everyone, Doyle walked along a white endless corridor, not sure how he was putting one foot in front of the other. His life seemed suddenly to be full of white endless corridors. When Bodie had been stabbed. When he himself had been shot. He started to tremble as the shock really set in.

He looked up to see a sign directing him to the hospital chapel. Yes, that’s the place. The only place. There really was nowhere else for him to go.

He had killed a child.

Doyle hadn’t taken part in organised religion since he was a boy but this place, this spiritual place with its candles and perfect peace, was the only place for him now.

Reverently he sat on a bench at the front, relieved to find himself alone. His shaking hands took out his gun and ID which he placed firmly on the seat beside him.

He wouldn’t be needing them anymore.

******

“Sir.” Breathless from carrying out the myriad tasks that the head of CI5 had set him when they arrived at the hospital, Bodie at last made it to Cowley’s side as he stood in the reception area.

“Ah, Bodie. Well done. They’ll take Hunapo through for surgery now. I take it you have arranged for armed guards to be waiting when he finally gets to the recovery room?”

“The boy, sir,” said Bodie, ignoring the question totally, desperate to know the outcome.

Cowley glanced at the pale faced woman who was sitting on the seat nearby and he gestured for Bodie to move further away. “They are cautiously optimistic,” he said, quietly.

“Was it Doyle?” asked Bodie. “Did Doyle shoot him?”

“We will know for sure once the ballistics report comes through,” replied Cowley. “But you know Doyle as well as I do. If he was aiming at Hunapo, smoke or no smoke, who would he have hit?”

“Hunapo, sir,” confirmed Bodie, without any hesitation.

“Exactly.”

“So Hunapo shot the boy?”

“Aye, of course.” Cowley said. “And all you have to do now is convince your partner of that.”

Bodie was about to object most strongly that, because of the work he had been doing in order to secure the hospital for Hunapo, he had absolutely no idea where his partner was, when a man dressed entirely in black approached them.

“Excuse me?” the man addressed Cowley, politely. “You’re the Police, I take it?”

Cowley turned towards him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion until he noticed the subtle dog collar fitted in the plain black shirt. “Can we help you?”

The man extended his hand in greeting, his eyes crinkling into a warm and caring smile. “I’m Father Cadey, Hospital Chaplain. Everyone calls me Mark.”

Cowley shook his hand. “Do you need something, Father Cadey?” Bodie smiled inwardly at Cowley’s unwillingness to use a more familiar term with a man of the cloth.

“I have a man in the Chapel with a gun,” said Mark, putting his hand up to prevent both men from jumping to the wrong conclusion. “He’s not threatening anyone with it, he’s just sitting there.”

“What does this man look like?” asked Bodie.

Mark looked him over, taking in the anxious expression on Bodie’s face. “Slim, curly dark hair. Do you know him?”

“Yes, thank God. Can you show me where?” About to walk off with the Chaplain he suddenly remembered his boss. “Sir?”

“Aye, yes,” agreed Cowley. “Go and find him then report back.”

“This way,” said Mark, quickly leading the way back through the reception area.

“Did he look okay?” asked Bodie, as they walked.

Mark gave him a sideways glance. “He looked like he was trying to find some peace.” Noticing the stricken expression on Bodie’s face he added, “But yes, he looked okay.”

Bodie nodded in response.

Several corridors later they finally approached the Chapel and both paused as they reached the door. Again Mark raised his hand to prevent Bodie from moving forward too quickly.

“What is it?” asked Bodie.

“This man,” said Mark, his eyes showing nothing but kindness and compassion, “he is important to you?”

“He’s my partner,” said Bodie, desperation in his voice. “In everything.”

“Then take care of him. I’ll stay here to make sure you have the place to yourselves.” He placed his hand on Bodie’s shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Thank you,” said Bodie, his mouth suddenly dry at the thought of what state his partner might be in.

He opened the door.

******

Even though Mark had assured him that Doyle would be there, the sense of relief as Bodie opened the door to find his partner sitting inside was overwhelming.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself together and walked into the room, quietly making his way to the front. Pausing for a moment, he carefully sat on the bench next to Doyle, noticing the gun and ID on the seat.

Nothing was said. The flickering candlelight was the only movement, Doyle apparently intently concentrating on the shadows they created against the magnolia walls.

Bodie didn’t even dare to breathe so instead he just sat in silence, taking his own part in this mutual vigil.

Calmly, deliberately, he removed his gun and ID and placed them next to Doyle’s on the seat between them.

Doyle glanced across at the collection of weapons then looked up, apparently noticing his partner for the first time.

“Bodie?” he whispered, his voice confused.

“Are you okay, sunshine?”

“I...”

“They think the boy will be okay,” said Bodie, quietly. “He’s in surgery now, as is Hunapo.”

“Who did I...?”

“Hunapo,” Bodie answered, quickly. “You shot Hunapo.”

“I wasn’t sure...couldn’t see...”

“I know. I know.”

“I...” Doyle’s voice sounded raw, like he was on the edge of tears. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Without you, Hunapo might have hurt more people.”

“But that boy still died.”

Bodie suddenly realised what it was that Doyle was blaming himself for and that he hadn’t heard a single word of what Bodie had told him. He leaned towards his partner. “No, listen to me, Ray. He’s not dead.”

Doyle turned to him, his expression still desolate. He wasn’t taking in anything Bodie was saying. He spoke as if the smoke and gas was still blinding him. “I’m not safe to be let out, let alone trusted with a gun. If I could walk away from myself, then I would. So why are you still here?”

“Wherever you go, I go.” Bodie turned and grabbed Doyle by the shoulders, shaking him a little. “Listen to me, Ray. You didn’t kill anyone,” he repeated, firmly. “They’ll both be okay. Everyone is okay, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Well, okay, thanks to all of us,” admitted Bodie, allowing himself a half smile.

Something seemed to clear on Doyle’s face as if a shadow had just moved across it.

“I didn’t kill the boy?”

Bodie tried again, desperate to get the message through. “For God’s sake! No!”

Tears started to drop down Doyle’s face as he looked up at Bodie.

“I thought...”

“I know what you thought,” said Bodie, softly. “But you were wrong.”

“Wrong...” Doyle took a shuddering breath and knocked back the tears with a shaky hand.  
Bodie dropped a tentative arm around his shoulders and, slowly, Doyle’s head dropped forward until his face was buried in Bodie’s jacket.

They sat quietly, undisturbed in the candlelight.

The candles flickered higher as the door opened and, still holding Doyle in his arms, Bodie looked up to see Mark peering worriedly into the room, enquiring silently of Bodie if he needed help. Bodie gave him a shaky smile and shook his head. He could deal with this. Mark nodded and retreated immediately.

Bodie felt Doyle’s breathing settle, counting the minutes as Doyle gradually pulled himself together.  
As much as Bodie wanted to help his partner to get over this, he still felt a sadness of his own as Doyle eventually pulled back and sat up by himself again.

“You came looking for me?” Doyle asked, his voice still a little shaky.

“Of course,” said Bodie. “Every time.”

Doyle picked up Bodie’s gun and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. Then he reached forward into Bodie’s jacket and put it carefully back in the holster hidden within. As he did so the back of his hand brushed against a piece of folded paper in Bodie’s inside pocket. Hands still shaking a little, Doyle pulled it out. “What’s this then?” he asked.

Bodie blushed. “Something I was hoping to be able to achieve.”

“What?” asked Doyle, confused.

Bodie gently took the paper back and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s get you out of here. Okay?”

“’Kay.”

Together they stood, collected their belongings and walked slowly out of the chapel.

Mark stood back as they emerged, clearly worried about them both.

“Everything all right?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes,” said Bodie, putting his hand on Doyle’s arm to get him to pause for a moment. “We’ll go back to reception now.”

“I’ll walk with you,” offered Mark, relieved to see Bodie’s small smile that he gave in return.

In silence the three men made their way along the clinical corridors until eventually they approached the bright reception area. Cowley was talking to the mother of the child and Mark moved to her side to offer support. However, when he realised who she was, Doyle stopped in his tracks.

“It’ll be okay, Ray,” said Bodie, taking hold of his elbow and encouraging him forward.

As they approached Cowley turned towards them. “He’s going to be alright,” he confirmed quickly, knowing the condition of the child would be foremost on their minds.

The woman stepped forward, tentatively. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaky. “I know now you saved him.” She continued forward with another step until, all in a rush, she hugged Doyle close. He still seemed a little shocked and gave Bodie a look of panic, but eventually returned her embrace and patted her on the shoulder.

A doctor arrived and with a quiet comment encouraged the woman to let Doyle go. Calmly, he told her that she was able to see her child now.

Mark had evidently decided to accompany her but gave Bodie and Doyle a reassuring smile as he left them.

Doyle watched them walk away, his face ashen.

“Take him for a walk,” suggested Cowley, taking in the vacant expression on Doyle’s face. “A bit of fresh air, that’s what he needs. There’s a park opposite.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bodie, a sense of relief flooding over him. “Come on, Ray.”

As they left the hospital Cowley watched them go.

The fight was over.

******

Together, Bodie and Doyle walked slowly around the perimeter of the deserted park, the snow and frigid air keeping everyone away. This wasn’t the kind of snow you ran out into for snowball fights or to make snow angels. It was even too cold for building snowmen. It was the kind of snow that kept you indoors in front of the fire, glad that you didn’t have to venture out into it.

They trod carefully on the frozen path, their breath showing white as they walked.

“Were you resigning?”

Bodie jumped at Doyle’s question. It was the first time his partner had spoken since the chapel.

“What?”

“The letter in your pocket.”

“Oh. No, of course not.” Taken aback, he took the article back out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here.”

Doyle, intrigued now, unfolded the paper and started to read.

“Cosmopolitan magazine,” he said, his brow wrinkled. “Win the heart of the man of your dreams in seven days.” He looked up at Bodie, clearly confused. “And how do they suggest you do that?”

“By showing how much you love him by doing nice things.” Bodie was suddenly so bright red with embarrassment you could fry eggs on him.

“Oh.” An enormous penny dropped as Doyle thought back across the past week. All the nice things Bodie had done... Bodie was trying to win his heart? Well one thing he knew for sure, he didn’t deserve any of it. His face crumpled again. “Nice thought, but you shouldn’t waste your time on me,” said Doyle. “I’m not worth it.” He shoved the article back at Bodie and started to turn away.

“Ray.”

A firm hand on his arm stopped Doyle from moving. “Let me go, Bodie,” he said, quietly.

“You don’t go anywhere without me,” said Bodie. He looked up at Doyle with an open and undeniable look of love on his face.

Doyle, shocked at the bare honesty of Bodie’s expression, took a step and nearly slipped over on the path. “You care about me,” he whispered.

“Not just care,” admitted Bodie, realising it was now or never. “I love you, Ray.”

“Love me...” Doyle closed his eyes. “Oh, Bodie.”

“Why do you think I was trying to win your heart?” Bodie’s own heart starting beating unnaturally fast. “Tell me I wasn’t wasting my time, Ray? Please?”

Doyle’s eyes opened again, teary and full of feeling, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Can I hold you?”

Relieved beyond words, Bodie closed his eyes into matted curls as his partner gave in to his emotions and pulled him into a tight embrace.

******

George Cowley had seen a few things in his time. Bull fights in Spain, the Berlin Wall, Russian spies in St Petersburg, peace rallies in San Francisco. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything quite as strange as Hunapo Smith being transported through the hospital corridors to recuperate from his operation. As the trolley made its way to the secure unit, Smith was waving his arms in the air singing ‘My Old Man Said Follow The Van’ at the top of his voice, the volume increasing at each line.

Cowley watched as his men caught up with the trolley and followed it down the corridor. The man would go into constant protective custody now, awaiting his trial.

And Cowley didn’t envy the judge and jury their jobs, not one little bit.

******

An hour later 3-7 and 4-5 were back at Doyle’s flat, where Bodie made tea and cheese on toast before joining his brooding partner in the lounge.

Doyle was sitting on the sofa, holding his blood stained jacket in his hands. Tutting, Bodie placed the supper on the coffee table and switched on the gas fire before taking a seat next to his partner. He took the jacket from him and placed it carefully over the arm of the sofa.

“You don’t need this now,” he said, painfully aware that his partner could still be in shock.

“You’d better let me read it properly,” said Doyle.

Bodie looked at him, confused.

“The article,” explained Doyle, holding out his hand.

“Oh.” Bodie retrieved the pages from his pocket and handed them over.

Doyle picked up his tea, took a sip, then began to read. Unable to look at him while he read Bodie turned the other way, diverting himself by taking a bite of his cheese on toast.

A few tense moments later, Doyle touched Bodie on the shoulder to make him turn back to him.

“So which one am I, then?” he asked. And when Bodie tried to look innocent, he added, “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“You’re ‘Acts of Service’,” said Bodie, with a blush. “You like having nice things done for you.”

Doyle blinked. “Are you trying to say I don’t like ‘Quality Time’ or ‘Words of Affirmation’?”

“Oh, you like them,” admitted Bodie. “But the idea is to find out which of the five things means the most. And then...”

“You use that to win the man of your dreams?”

Bodie looked away, suddenly feeling really silly. “Yes.”

Doyle smiled for the first time in hours. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t decide I was a ‘Receiving Gifts’ kinda guy,” he said. “Goodness knows what you’d have been buying me for the last week.”

“Ray?” Bodie was slowly getting his courage back. Maybe things weren’t going as badly as he had feared.

“Yes, Bodie?”

“Did I get it right?”

Doyle took the plate from Bodie’s hand and placed it back on the coffee table, then leant across towards his partner, forcing him to lean back against the sofa. Reaching out a slim finger, he flicked toast crumbs from his partner’s lips.

“I think that’s something I’m going to keep to myself,” said Doyle, his eyes narrowing, a definite sparkle glinting through. “But I do know one thing for sure and that’s which one of the five is your favourite.”

With one swift move he swung his leg across so that he was now sitting on Bodie’s lap, facing him.

He put his hands on Bodie’s shoulders for balance and moved in toward him.

“Oh,” said Bodie, almost going cross eyed in his attempt to focus on his suddenly very close partner. “And which would that be?”

“Physical Touch,” Doyle murmured, moving in for a kiss.

And Bodie found he really had to admit that his partner knew him very well indeed.

The End.


End file.
